Ma Belle Evangeline
by CeCeLa
Summary: Frances pays a long awaited visit to his most beloved former colony, the birthplace of jazz. In the south land there's a city, way down by the river. Where the woman are very pretty and all the men deliver. They got music, it's always playing. Starts in the day and goes on to the night.


I wrote this story about my hometown and the city I love. I've been listening to Kermit all day while eating a sno-ball. The city inspired me to write this (and Princess and the Frog which I did watch again today). There is much more to New Orleans that what I have written or what the media says. You just have to live here to understand. Still, I hope you enjoy.

_**Ma Belle Evangeline**_:

She is sitting outside at a café on Decatur. From afar, I see her looking out at the people who pass by, searching for me no doubt. I chuckle to myself, pleased to be back in such a city. She waves me down, and when I am close, she greats me in the French way with a kiss on each cheek. Now, outside under the summer sun, street musicians fill the Quarter with music. It is her heart and soul. We sit, with a backdrop of cast-iron balconies and close-quarter residence. It's not an easy thing to describe one's impression of this city. While it actually resembles no other city upon the face of the earth, yet it recalls vague memories of a hundred cities. It owns suggestions of towns in Italy, and in Spain, cities in England and in Germany, of seaports in the Mediterranean, and of seaports in the tropics. There are memories of Harve and Marseilles to be obtained at the Vieux Carre, there are buildings in Jackson Square that echo Spanish-America, and there is music.

_The big bass drum led the big parade, all on a Mardi Gras day. _

Across the street, a young boy is tap dancing to the song, a hat in front of him for donations. Next to him is a silver man on a crate, as still as statue draws just as big as a crowd as the young boy. People dance, people laugh and through the street stride a horse and carriage. There is much to enjoy in this quaint, curious, crooked French Quarter. Narrow streets, houses painted in little tints of blues, greens and yellows even the neglected ones have appealing charm. I imagine the power of fascination she has on foreigners is due to some strange power of feeling at home. No matter what people come here for, he will find in the Crescent City some memory of home, some memory of something he loves.

_All you could hear was the people say: 'om bah way, tu way pocky a way'._

"Evangeline," I call her, her attention is on the boy and she wiggles to the bass drum in her seat. This city is a continuous concert, orchestrated by the people themselves. It is lively, but not the liveliness of New York. Time seems to slow down on the banks of the Mississippi. Old world charm mixed with ancient cultural traditions and modern life, created this melting pot of wonder. And just like the 1920s, when she brought jazz to my shores, the city has a way of making you forget your troubles. Locals, with broken speech, second lines and a bowl of her famous gumbo, welcomes everyone to experience this party. I'm honored to say, I contributed significantly to this way of life.

When she turns to me, her eyes are bright and I see Alfred in them. Deep baby browns, youthful, playful and lively: carefree. Although she is now apart of America, I still see myself in those eyes and everything else about her. Pleased as I am to say, she never let's the world forget her first love.

The music changes to a slower tempo, it reminds me of Montmartre. I touch her hand, "Come on, mon cherie, dance with me, will you?"

She is up before I can finish, and on the neutral ground, I spin her around. Humidity hangs thick in the air, like a blanket. It clings to my shirt and her dress. Still, it's presence is not stifling and I breathe her in along with the summer's day.

_Good morning, New Orleans. We love you New Orleans. It's such a lovely thing to love New Orleans. _

Natural sun kissed brown skin from her heritage; her hands are warm to the touch. It reminds me of Antonio, and her Senegalese bloodline, both warm and inviting. When a crowd comes, I don't mind at all, because I love seeing her this way, elated and happy. They cheer because they know her face. They cry 'Evie' and older couples dance ago. On the cobblestones, her shoes click and mine do as well. We dance in circles to a rhythmic tempo that echoes the birthplace of this music in Congo Square.

_The sun shines so so bright, the breeze is so so nice. The starlight twinkles all night down by the riverside._

Evangeline let's go of my hands and takes another partner. I dance with a local as well, and as we switch partners, I keep my eyes on her. When she catches me doing so, she pokes her tongue at me and winks. My heart flutters at this and I smile. Oui, she still holds a special place there. She smiles back to me as we reunite again. I pull her close to me, and we twirl once more. She smells of sweet spices, summer grass and womanly. When she laughs, her mouth opens wide, showing every pearly white. It bounces off her heart and resonates like the sound of a trumpet into mine. The sound is this music, the music she carries with her. That reckless, unpredictable sound of improvisation and upbeat chords, if played just right could be lazy, romantic and soothing. It is her soul.

_Some people wonder what all this talk is about, in New Orleans. But if you love her, you know what I mean._

When the song is close to its end, I am reluctant to let go. Evie pulls away, small dabs of sweat on her brow. As the crowd dissipates, she looks around until she spots the young tap dancer across the street. Reaching in her pocket, she pulls out money and runs across the street. Mon cherie can be quite daring at times. In his hat, she drops the money. The young boy smiles, he is missing a front tooth. He does a quick two-step number as I approach and we applaud his performance.

_I feel like I'm a king when I lay down and dream. About my people that all live here, we just love her so much._

"Come on, you gotta remember, Francis," she says to me, as we walk hand in hand towards the river. I did remember, although that period of history was waxed with horrors, especially for me. Not all bad though, as she stresses to me. I remember them all, from Josephine to Bricktop, I remember. And those nights in Montmartre, where people forgot that their country was suffering. The worries of the Great War lost in the notes of ragtime and wild dancing of the swing. She was there, sitting at bar in le Grand Duc when I walked in, chatting there with some of the greats, Eugene, Sidney and La Revue Negre. Those places were always full, smoky and loud. Drinks were never in short supply and the dance floor never empty of people who just wanted to forget. It hung in the atmosphere, a certain je ne sais quoi, that gave people liberation, the perfect mix for l'amore. It was because of her. From behind the bar, Bricktop, ever the bodacious one, called to me.

"Francis, baby, grab a drink and sit next to Evie. We missed you last night!"

Then that smile, that carefree smile as she twisted around the barstool to look at me.

"I came to see how you were doing," she informed me in broken Creole French, it was and still is rather adorable. I asked her to stay in the country for a little while; I hadn't seen her since the war. We'd walk the jazz-flooded streets of Paris, arm in arm. When a tone caught her attention, she'd pull me in for a dance on the midnight streets. If there wasn't a trombone or trumpet in sight, she'd make her own music and we'd dance. I often wondered if she did that because she sensed my depression. Of course, she'd never say so. It was always 'just cause' or 'laissez les bons temps rouler'. Even the country of love needs love from time to time, non?

As the sun sparkles and sinks on the dim waters of the lazy Mississippi, the temperature cools but not the people's spirits.

"If we hurry, we can catch the Natchez before it leaves," Evangeline pulls me along the River Walk towards the riverboat. I let her gladly and we make it just in time. The ticket keep tips her hat to us, and we go aboard the steamboat. Tourist line the outskirts of the boat to get a view of the skyline. They are merry as the boat pulls from the dock with a hum. I look out as the streetlights replace the sun, and we drift into the center of the river. From somewhere, someone starts to sing accompanied by an accordion.

_Look how she lights up the sky, ma belle Evangeline. So far above me yet I know her heart belongs to only me. _

Evie looks around, surprised I'm sure. The singer, nods to us as the rest of the band starts. Although her skin is brown, I can make out the pink in her cheeks. Her eyes meet mine, and then look towards the river again.

I take the opportunity to my advantage and with grace gives a brief bow, 'Mademoiselle,"

Extending my hand, our fingers intertwine; a smirk plays on her lips when I pull her once again close to me.

"Did you plan this, Francis Bonnefoy?" she asks though her tone is not accusing.

"Ohon, you give me too much credit, mon petite fleur de lis" When we sway, it is in sync with the boat and waves. Behind us is the city line around us is water. Above us is the stars and in front, we see each other. Her soul shines as the musicians play and the crowd somehow becomes non-existent in the light of her brown eyes. She let's go of my hand, choosing instead to close the distance and place them both around my neck. Though my country is the country of love, and I can boost of being love itself, ma cherie, never fails to leave me breathless.

_Someone as beautiful as she could love someone like me. Love always finds away it's true. And I love you Evangeline._

Horns and the accordion play a synchronized melody; the singer's voice is raspy but soothing. Her heart beats in rhythm to it. I close my eyes, and rest my forehead on hers. It is cool from the river's breeze, but her breath is warm. She is comfort and she is home. In that moment I regret ever give her away to another country. I miss the days of old, when she was my little colony. Ah, but I can't think of such things now, not while her fingers tangle themselves in my blond hair. In responses, I slide my fingers up her back, then trickle them down again. She draws in a breath and there is a brief absence of warmth as she does so. Her heartbeat no longer goes with the music. It is out of sync, quicker. In one sleek motion, she moves one hand from my hair, tracing it over my ear and across the stubble on my cheek. I mimic her movement, pulling my hand up her side, over her arm and placing my hand on hers. When I open my eyes, hers are lowered by still looking at me.

_Love is beautiful. _The singer says.

In a hushed tone I mimic back to her "L'amore est beau,"

_Love is wonderful_

"L'amore est merveilleuse_,"_

_Love is everything, do you agree._

"Mais, oui." she answers. The boat turns a bit, heading back to the city that sits on the Mississippi. The city that gave birth to jazz. The city that is like none other but is reminiscent of the world. The Big Easy, Mardi Gras City, Crescent City, the City that Care Forgot, regardless of what the world knows her by, she will always be my Evie. Evangeline's eyes drift close; her nose brushes mine as she tilts her head up. When her lips part slightly, I tilt my head down, sealing a love that started years ago.

_Look how she lights up the sky. I love you, Evangeline._

* * *

_"In the south land there's a city, way down on the river. Where the women are very pretty and all the men deliver. They got music, it's always playing. Start in the daytime and go on to the night." _Tu way pocky way! lol_  
_

**om bah way, tu way pocky way: **call made by the spyboy Indian. the chief would send the spyboy to check for enemies. going there, he would say 'om bah, way'. and if the coast was clear, he would say, 'tu way pocky way'. The words are actually a mix of native Indian and French language, I'm not sure what it means.**  
**

**laissez les bons temps rouler: **'let the good times roll' Very famous campaign slogan for a New Orleans Mayor

**mon petite fleur de lis: '**my little lily flower**' **(everybody should know what a fleur de lis is! if you don't it's the symbol of New Orleans!)**  
**

Music used to write this story: "All on a Mardi Gras Day"-Kermit Ruffins and Rebirth Brass Band; "Good Morning, New Orleans"-Kermit Ruffins and "Ma Belle Evangeline"-Princess and the Frog soundtrack.

Au revoir

-CeCe ^_^


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